Rating: R Summary: When FBI Agent Alexander Harris is put on the case of the latest serial killer, known to the law as Angelus, he finds himself turning to an old enemy for help. Categories and Warnings: Angst, AU Human!AU, Violence Blood and gore. Credit goes to Thomas Harris for his Hannibal series, which this is loosely based on.

Blood Wings

by
frk_werewolf

Part One

The file sat on the oak desk, surrounded by yellow sticky notes and pieces of paper with quick sentences written in a hasty hand. Agent Alexander Harris, known to his coworkers as Xander, sat on one side of the desk, hands resting lightly on the edge of the desk. The edge of a picture peaked out from the file, allowing a blood-coated hand to be seen.

"Sir?" Xander looked up as the department's newest intern entered the room. She was short, with dark brunette hair and sharp eyes. Most of the other agents didn't think Faith would last under the pressure. Xander was willing to bet them wrong.

"Yes?"

"Dr. Ethan Rayne is on the phone." Faith replied. "He's overviewed the file and is ready to offer his opinion. Line three."

Xander waited until Faith had left the room before letting out a sigh. Reaching for the phone, he cradled it against his shoulder and chin before flipping open the file. Bright pictures of a body greeted him. "This is Agent Harris."

"Ah, Harris, I was happy to find you in." Ethan's voice was calm and hinted with a British accent. Xander thought he was an arrogant prick, but had never developed the nerve to say it to his face. "I was hoping we could take a moment to go over the file on your latest hunt. I must say I was surprised they put you on this case so soon after Agent Summers' removal. Tell me, Harris, is she well?"

"Last I heard she had stopped vomiting in the morning." Xander said. "Dr. Rayne, I'm sure you didn't call me up to chat about Summers' pregnancy. Shall we get started?"

"Hmm, yes." Ethan sighed and in the background Xander could hear pages turn. "Our boy is a sociopath, though I'm sure you knew that. The tabloids are calling him a vampire, did you know? Of course, they only know of the dual puncture wounds to the neck and not of--"

"I'm perfectly aware of what the papers know and don't know." Xander interrupted. He had spent the better part of the hour looking at the pictures that he now had spread out on his desk. Buffy Summers had been precise in her research, leaving Xander the privilege of simply diving in and trying to find a new angle. He didn't have time for Ethan's small talk. Four people were dead, not including two cats and a dog that had been owned by the newly deceased.

"Very well, on to the hard core bits, eh?" Ethan chuckled. "He's a sociopath, as I've stated. He obviously feels no guilt in what he does, leaving the likelihood that he will not stop. He's got a taste for the blood, after all. The use of angelic symbols and the neck wounds signify a deeply rooted hatred or feeling of abandonment from God. It's possible he went to church in his early days."

Xander grabbed a piece of paper and began writing down notes: church connection?

"He's very careful, isn't he?" Ethan murmured. Xander glanced at the postmortem pictures and couldn't help but agree. "He knows anatomy, that is certain. He probably went to college, don't you think? Ah, yes, our boy knows exactly what he's doing."

"What we need to know is what he looks for in a victim, Dr. Rayne." Xander informed him.

"That's the question, isn't it? I'm afraid that's all I can offer, Agent Harris. I'm merely a psychiatrist, after all." Ethan said. "You will send me any of your latest information, correct?"

"Yes, of course." Xander lied. Buffy had trusted Ethan mostly because their supervisor, Rupert Giles, trusted him. Xander wasn't that gullible, however. Ethan had given everything he knew. Some psychiatrist looking at files one hundred miles away wouldn't catch this serial killer.

"By the way, I was curious about something." Ethan said, before Xander could hang up. "How are you sleeping at night?"

"I don't think that's any of your business." Xander stiffened. "Goodbye, Dr. Rayne."

Setting the phone back on its cradle, Xander took a moment to rub at his temples. Then, he began placing the file back together, each picture and piece of paper going in exact order. Grabbing a case for the file, he slid it inside and stood. Faith watched him leave the office. He was almost out the door when a thought struck him. "Faith?"

"Yes, sir?" Faith asked.

"Call Daniel Osbourne for me and have him get over to the Hurley's house. Tell him I'll meet him there." Xander ordered, before walking away without a reply.

The Hurley's had been the second family killed in two months. As Xander jumped into his car and drove toward the small three-bedroom home, the case file zipped through his mind like a cat on speed. Mr. Hurley had been divorced for five years and his daughter had just turned twelve. They had two cats. The cats had been found with their heads cut off on the back porch. The neighbors hadn't heard a thing.

The first family was a single mom, Ms. Colby, and her nine-year-old son. Their dog had been found poisoned in the alley behind the house.

The murders were exactly fifty miles apart, both families living in small towns east and west of Los Angelus. Aside from both murders including a child and a parent there were also the visible clues. Which was why Xander needed Daniel 'Oz' Osbourne, a forensic photographer who was better at being a genius than a film developer.

"Hey." Oz greeted, resting against the side of his white van. Xander got out of his car, slamming the door behind him.

"Oz, my man, I need your help." Xander said, pulling the house key out of his pocket. "I need you to take a set of pictures of the upstairs master bedroom and hallway."

"Didn't your men do this already?" Oz asked, opening his van in order to pull out his equipment.

"I'd rather you go over it, personally." Xander admitted.

The house was musty inside, despite having been accessed repeatedly by both the local police and the FBI. Downstairs, everything was clean. Not a drop of blood, a footprint, or even a hair had been left behind. Upstairs, on the other hand, was a different story. The girl's bedroom showed sign of a struggle. Bed sheets had been kicked off the bed, a lamp knocked to the floor. A handful of long, blonde hair had been found near the door. Mostly likely from when the killer had yanked the girl out of bed.

As the camera's flash filled the room repeatedly, Xander searched for any clues that might have been overlooked. He retraced the supposed steps of the killer, walking into the girl's room and inspecting the dresser. Pictures of friends were tacked onto the vanity mirror and a jumble of bracelets and make-up covered the surface. A small jewelry box sat in the middle. Inside, Xander found a few rings and a cross necklace.

The closet held modest looking clothes. It was obvious Mr. Hurley didn't let his daughter dress inappropriately. The girl didn't have a diary or any personal notebooks of any kind. This was the type of daughter that didn't feel the need to keep secrets from her father.

Xander followed the path from the girl's bed, down the hallway where a few pictures had been knocked off the wall, and into the master bedroom. For a moment, red filled Xander's vision. Closing his eyes, Xander took in a deep breath. The copper-like scent of dried blood hit his nose. Then, slowly, he reopened his eyes. Xander forced himself to remember what had happened next, mind shifting back to the case file that sat in his car outside.

The daughter had been dragged into the master bedroom, where she was tied up and thrown into a corner. Bruises had been found along her wrists and ankles. The killer had then turned to the father, who had still been asleep. Medical records showed Mr. Hurley had been placed on a heavy sedative to help with his nerves barely two weeks before his death. While Ms. Colby had woken to the sound of her son screaming, Mr. Hurley did not wake until the murderer had stabbed him in the hip.

Why the hip? Was it significant? Xander frowned and looked toward the bed. A large circle of blood shown where the hip wound had bled.

"Huh. Weird." Oz stated, taking pictures of the symbol on the wall. Xander kept himself from looking. He wasn't to that point yet.

Mr. Hurley had been dragged into an upright position, where he had not struggled or moved. Xander suspected he had been warned. A familiar tune with psychos. Move or say anything and your daughter gets it. The killer had then turned back to the daughter, possibly said something or maybe touched her cheek in a fake caress.

Then, what? Xander crossed his arms, brow furrowed in thought. The knife wound had occurred at about eleven at night, but the time of death was sometime around two or three in the morning for both parties. What had the bastard done to entertain himself? The slaughter and gore was obvious, but that had only taken about an hour.

Xander walked toward Mr. Hurley's closet, searching for something, anything. Opening it, he stared at the business suits and jeans. The top shelf had a stack of board games and, right next to them, high school yearbooks. Xander pulled a pair of latex gloves from his back pocket and slipped them on. He could hear Oz move around behind him, taking images of the dresser, bed, ceiling, everything.

Xander pulled down the yearbook from Mr. Hurley's freshman year.

"I'm not finding anything, Xander." Oz informed him. "Everything's so out in the open. There isn't anything here that the office didn't catch the first time around."

"Get the bathroom and closet." Xander ordered. Oz let out a slight sigh, but moved into the master bedroom's bathroom and began taken pictures.

Images of the seventies burst from the yearbook's pages. A group of men dressed up as Kiss for Halloween. Cheerleaders and football players getting ready for a pep rally. Some pictures had little circles around them. One junior had small pink hearts around her picture. Xander turned to the freshman section, flipping pages until he reached the H's.

Xander stared at the page. A hole. Someone had cut out Mr. Hurley's image. No, not someone. The killer. The sociopath that other members of the FBI, as well as local police, had taken up calling Angelus. Xander slowly closed the book and put it back in place. He would wait until Oz had the closet photographed before packing the yearbooks away and taking them to the lab for tests.

Having figured out what 'Angelus' (Xander shuddered, hating the thought of giving the man a title, but his mind fought the desire for anonymity and labeled the killer as such nonetheless.) had been doing, Xander turned back to the corner of the room.

Angelus had attacked the girl, first. It was certain he had gagged the father. Signs of bruising indicated as such on the autopsy. Xander took a step toward the corner of the room, where splatters of blood outlined the girl's figure, where she had been bound and left. Behind him, Oz moved toward the closet.

She had been stripped to only her panties. Xander didn't want to picture it, but the agent in him demanded the image of the twelve-year-old girl, coated in sweat due to her fear, to spring to mind. Angelus hadn't spent much time on her. It was the same with the Colby boy. Both had a cross etched into their cheek with a sharp piece of metal. Not a knife, the wounds had been too jagged to be a knife.

The Colby boy had been stabbed repeatedly, but had died of suffocation instead of blood loss. The Hurley girl had had more time spent on her. Careful slices, not deep enough to bleed as much as the boy had, and in the end she had suffocated as well. Both had a set of punture wounds, most likely from a sharpened screwdriver, placed on the neck like a vampire. Both victims had been cleaned after their death. The blood on their body was minimal. On the boy, the floor had been soaked with blood, but the girl had been found on a carpet that only had a few drops.

Behind both were streaks of blood. Xander lowered himself into a crouch and looked at these streaks now. They looked as though they had been done intentionally. Xander made a mental note to check the file for any fingerprinting done on this wall.

But, why? Why had Angelus been so careful with the children's bodies? Why did he feel the urge to paint the wall with their blood? Xander couldn't figure it out. Standing, Xander turned to the carefully painted angel wings above the bed. The crusted blood had already begun to flake, but the image was still clear.

"Done." Oz announced. Xander jumped in shock. "Anything?"

"Nothing." Xander admitted. "He cut out Mr. Hurley's image from the yearbook. I'll get that packed up in a minute. Other than that, I can't figure this freak out."

"He's good." Oz said in his calm tone. The sound soothed Xander, as it usually did. Oz had the impression of a placid lake in the midst of a hurricane. "That's some detailed work right there. I'll have the close ups analyzed. Do you want to have an open connection with the other departments, or should I talk to you only?"

"Send all of the copies to both, but talk only to me. I'll relay whatever is important." Xander said.

"Right." Oz held his camera close, looking over Xander's shoulder at the bloodstained bed. "Do you want me to stay?"

"No, I'm fine." Xander said, taking in a deep breath.

"You shouldn't be out here. Not so soon." Oz informed him. Xander wanted to tell him to shut up, but Oz was a friend and not someone easily ordered around. Oz would merely keep talking. "I don't know how you do it. I'm nervous simply standing here, taking pictures, knowing I did the exact same thing for your last catch."

"It wasn't a big deal, Oz. Everyone is blowing it out of proportion." Xander told him. "Besides, I don't think he would have killed me."

"No, you're right. He would have done worse." Oz replied, softly. "After you get this madman taken care of, you should go on vacation."

"Hmm, probably." Xander agreed.

"Or just quit. If William the Bloody reacted to me the way he did you, I would have quit a long time ago. You've got to be insane to stay in a job like this."

"You know what they say." Xander shrugged, eyes still trained on the blood painted wings. "Only a crazy man can recognize a fellow psycho."

"Then have them release William and let him catch this freak, not you."

Part Two

"I don't like it." Agent Rupert Giles informed him from the other side of the desk. Xander sat in the hard wood chair, knowing Giles bought the contraptions just to keep his workers nervous when they came to visit him. Giles -- Xander had never grown comfortable calling him by his first name -- pulled off his glasses and began cleaning them. "Why don't you have that new girl go?"

"Sir, Faith is not ready for that sort of... Assignment." Xander said, carefully.

"She seems like a capable young woman." Giles commented.

"Yes, and she is, but... You know William Bradshaw will not talk with just anyone." Xander said.

"I don't see the point in you going to begin with, to be honest." Giles replied. He leaned forward, setting his glasses down on the desk next to the phone. "You're a good agent, Xander, but if you feel this case is too much, too soon--"

"I'm not broken, sir." Xander interrupted. "And, I'll admit, I'm getting a little tired of everyone assuming so. I know I can get this guy, but I need a little insight. Not the kind a psychiatrist can give me, but the kind a fellow sociopath can. I know he'll help."

"How can you be so certain?" Giles asked.

"I can't, but it's worth a try." Xander admitted. "No one knows how to get inside a killer's mind better than a fellow killer. If I can convince William to look at the murder scenes and autopsy reports, we may discover an actual motive."

"Most serial killers don't have motives, Xander, you know this."

"Forgive me, but I think they do. In their own way, at least. The symbols, the repetition of style, and the way the victim is selected indicates a motive. This Angelus creature isn't doing it because he's bored, he's doing it because he wants to." Xander leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his forehead. "I just can't figure out why."

"Very well." Giles reached for his phone. "I'll get you permission. I'll also check on those yearbooks while you are gone. Expect the results on your desk when you return."

The Los Angeles Center for the Criminally Insane was recently built, once it became less practical to send the west coast's sociopath to Boston's facility. Xander had never been inside it and, up until today, he had assumed he never would. It was a large building, with steel doors and a near hospital-like feel. The newest approach to keeping your prisoners uncomfortable, Xander supposed.

Dr. Willow Rosenberg greeted him at the door, immediately shuffling him toward her office. She was a short woman with bright red hair and a sunny disposition. She made Xander comfortable, remembering a time when he was always the first to crack a joke or smile. Willow sat down across from him, a bright smile on her face. "So, you're the man that caught William the Bloody. It's a pleasure to finally meet the man that brought him into this prison and my files."

"Yeah, it was fun." Xander stated sarcastically. Willow raised an eyebrow. "...How is he?"

"Tormenting the staff." Willow informed him, her lips curving into a mild smile. "He's demanded second breakfast and tea in bed thus far. He's rather... Intellectual. We've given him permission to access books within our library. He's rather fond of Robert Frost."

"He is a poet fan." Xander agreed. Yes, William Bradshaw was definitely a lover of poetry. His apartment, when ransacked by the police, had at least five bookshelves lining the wall. They had been overfilled with books. "Did you need anything else, or can I get started?"

"I just need to go over a few rules. Don't accept anything from him. Don't touch the glass wall that separates him from the rest of the world. Most importantly, don't answer any personal questions. He's very charismatic, as I'm sure you know." Willow watched Xander's jaw tense. She stood and handed him a small badge. "I'll walk you to the guard station, shall I?"

Soon, Xander found himself walking down a long hallway. He passed several cells. People thumped on the glass walls, one man yelled obscenities at him. As he drew closer to his destination he saw a small chair had been placed for his convenience. Xander stalled, unable to take the necessary steps to bring the inside of William the Bloody's cell into view.

"Hello, sweetness. Can I have a piece?" Someone asked in another cell. Xander didn't look over. Tightening his hold on his briefcase, Xander stepped forward.

The cell was bright white, a color that didn't fit the madness of its occupant's mind. A few paperback books sat on a bolted down desk. Bits of paper and a felt tip pen resided next to them. At the back of the room was the small twin bed, sheets white and blanket gray. It was bolted down as well. Along the wall were pictures, photographs of places Xander had never been and wondered how they had come to be there.

Propped up, knee bent and the other stretched out, William 'The Bloody' Bradshaw rested his back against the wall. His eyes were closed, though Xander knew he wasn't asleep. The man was an enigma that was certain. He was also beautiful. The hot-blooded gay male in Xander couldn't deny that. Soft skin, bleach white hair that used to be slicked back, but was now falling down into his eyes. The roots were darker, but still blonde. His body was compact, he was but a few inches shorter than Xander, and his stomach had well defined muscles. The light gray prison outfit did nothing to flatter the man, giving him a washed out impression.

Xander still thought he was beautiful, despite the small fault such as too pale skin and a homicidal mentality.

"I was wondering when I'd see you." Clear blue eyes peeked open as a soft voice spoke in a cockney accent.

"Listen, why don't we cut to the chase, William--" Xander started.

"Spike." He interrupted. "William is so blah, don't you think? I'd rather go by Spike."

"Any particular reason you want to change your name?" Xander couldn't help but ask.

"Skin of the chameleon, love. Nonetheless, I won't answer to anything but it."

"Fine. Spike it is." Xander fought to not roll his eyes. Bloody murders aside, 'Spike' was the type of man Xander could never deal with. He was arrogant and full of himself, leaving Xander to feel inadequate.

"Now then, love." Spike swung his legs over and off his cot, head cocked to the side as he watched Xander sit down on the small chair provided for him. "What can I do for you?"

"There's a new serial killer in town." Xander informed him. He watched, as Spike stood, moving with liquid grace. "We can't get a hold on him, though."

"We... Or I?" Spike countered, moving toward the glass wall. A single hand reached out and began tracing shapes along the glass. Xander noticed that his fingers, though that of a killer, were slender and delicate, like a writer's. Spike smirked. "Cat got your brain and you're all out of ideas."

"I wont deny it." Xander shrugged. Spike began to smile, his teeth practically bared like a jungle cats. "You understand the mind of a psychotic better than anyone else, what with you being one--"

"Your words, pet, they wound me." Spike interrupted, before dropping down into a crouch. He stared at Xander, causing a shiver to go up the agent's spine. "I could help you, for a price. Can't get nothing for free, you know that."

"I suspected as much." Xander admitted. "What do you want?"

"That would depend on what you were willing to give." Spike let out a soft sigh, his eyes traveling across Xander's form. Xander shifted in his seat and frowned. "I could ask for so many things, you know. Mmm, in fact, what I wouldn't give for one night with you."

"Why? So you could kill me?" Xander realized that his best defense in these types of situations was talking. Most would remain quiet and let Spike talk himself into a stupor. Not Xander, though Xander had a feeling that was why Spike was so intrigued with him. "Even I'm not that stupid, Will... Err, Spike."

Xander wouldn't get used to calling him Spike, he had been William in his head for too long. Though, maybe, a name change would be good. His link to William was thick and constant, digging into his dreams and affecting his work. To have this man before him be Spike would mean he wasn't the murderer that Xander had captured less than a year ago.

"I would never kill you, love." Spike informed Xander, dragging him out of his thoughts. Spike stood, one hand still pressed against the glass. Nails scratched across the surface. "I want to help you."

"Do you? Or maybe this is all a game." Xander stood, picking up his briefcase with a trembling hand. Spike licked his lips and Xander wanted nothing more than to be home, curled up in bed and with the knowledge that he was alone. But even home wasn't safe anymore.

"You can't escape me, Harris!" Spike suddenly snapped, one hand slapping at the glass. Blue eyes, filled with something that Xander couldn't identify, stared. "I'm stuck in your head now. You've got me in every inch and crevice of your soul. I won you."

"I think the artificial light is getting to you." Xander managed to say. Spike wasn't right, or so Xander tried to convince himself.

"Why did you really come here?" Spike asked, his voice a mere hiss. "Was it to get help, or to see me? Give me a copy of the case file, pet, and I'll do your detective work."

"And in return?"

"I want a picture." Spike said, lips curved upward. "A nice big one of you.... Shirtless."

"I will not be one your fantasies, Spike." Xander replied, eyes darting over to the wall with the photographs. He couldn't picture an image of himself up there and he didn't want to.

"You already are, love." Spike smirked. "Give me the file."

Xander's hand tightened around the handle of his briefcase. Should he allow Spike one more entry into his life? He already had to move into a different apartment and buy a new bed because of him. Xander frowned, determined to not think about what Spike did to him, or wanted to do.

Setting his briefcase onto the chair, he slowly undid the clasps. The file wasn't very thick. Xander had only photocopied the important data: pictures of the murder scenes and bodies, as well as the police report. He placed it into the tray that was used for giving food to Spike and pushed it through the wall. Spike watched him, head stuck at a tilt.

"There. I'll... I'll bring your picture when I come next." Xander said.

Spike pulled the file out and flipped it open, a look of pure glee appearing on his face when he saw the full color photos. "What a lovely devil this man must be. You bring me that photo, love, and we'll have him in the cell next to mine shortly."

"So you can play with him, I'm sure." Xander muttered.

"I only play with you, Xander Harris." Spike turned serious eyes toward him. "You know that."

Xander left as quickly as he could, unable to deal with being close to Spike any longer. Once outside, he climbed into his car and took a moment to simply breathe. He had to question his own sanity. He knew coming here had been a bad idea. Spike had a wonderful habit of playing with his victim's heads. He was sensual, to every core of his being. Even Xander was affected by it.

Spike also had a short attention span. He grew tired of his playing quickly, usually resulting in the victims deaths. Xander could remember every crime scene he had set foot on while on the William the Bloody case. Bloody was a correct title for the man. Yet, Xander couldn't help but notice that Spike's interest in him, the one who placed him in that prison, was not wavering. It was very different from Spike's usual style. It was also really creepy.

Xander drove back to the office slowly. He knew the test results on the yearbooks would be done and placed on his desk within the hour. He needed to get the keys to the Colby storage. The Colby house had already been packed up and was placed on the market two weeks ago. Going to the house wouldn't help anything, now. Still, he needed to see if Ms. Colby had kept any of her high school yearbooks. It could be that this was yet another trend for Angelus.

"Sir?" Faith stood, catching Xander by the arm before he could step into his office.

"Yes? What is it?" Xander asked.

"Mr. Osbourne called." Faith informed him. "He's coming over immediately. It seems he found something while inspecting the pictures he took."

"Good, thank you." Xander opened his office door and entered, Faith behind him. "Did the crime lab send anything over?"

"Yes, the report is there on your desk." Faith said. She wasn't looking at him. Instead she was staring at the various news clippings pinned up to the wall. Some were on Spike's capture; the others were on press releases about Angelus. Xander didn't say anything and focused instead on the files next to his phone.

"You went to see him today, right?" Faith suddenly asked, causing Xander to look up.

"Yes."

"Why?" Faith frowned. "I mean..."

"Sometimes when you've stared at a file over and over again you start to ignore the little things." Xander informed her. "It's good to have a new perspective on it."

"No offence, sir, but if that's all you needed than one of the other agents, or I, could have looked at it." Faith said, her lips curving into a slight smile. Xander had found that Faith was very sarcastic in nature and that most of the office considered her rude. Xander, however, enjoyed her teasing. It made things interesting.

"I just might take you up on that offer, Faith." Xander smiled.

"Do you think he'll find anything?"

"Bradshaw is... A different breed of human. He'll find something, but whether he'll tell me is another story all together." Xander admitted.

"From what I hear amongst the gossip the likelihood of him not giving you anything is slim to none." Faith smirked. Xander scowled. "Though, that sort of opinion is typically generated when a person is found tied to their bed by the very man he's suppose to be hunting."

Xander refused to acknowledge this comment and instead shifted through the crime lab's report. "Damn."

"No fingerprints?" Faith asked, hovering next to the door. "Well, maybe your little photography friend might have something."

"Let's hope so." Xander sighed and rubbed at his temple. "Otherwise, we're back to ground zero."

Part Three

Daniel Osbourne looked as though he hadn't slept in two days. Considering he was already finished with his analysis of the pictures, which had been taken the previous afternoon, that was fully possible. He immediately pulled a series of blown up images out of his portfolio, propping them up along the wall. Then, he took a step back and allowed Xander the room to inspect them.

"Damn." Faith muttered from where she stood next to Oz. She scrunched up her nose and stepped closer to the image that showed the angel wings in their entirety.

Each picture was mostly dark red in color, displaying textures that overrode Xander's brain. He didn't understand their significance, but he knew Oz did. Xander was thankful to have Oz at his side. The man was a genius and if Xander was honest he would admit that he never would have captured Spike if it weren't for Oz.

"He used a paint brush." Oz stated calmly.

"A paint brush? That's... Well, that's fucked up." Faith commented, before leaving the room and back to her desk. The door clicked shut behind her.

"Indeed it is." Oz smiled slightly. Then, noting the frown of concentration on Xander's face, stepped toward the first image. "Do you see this here? The blood is swept across the wall in an outward fashion. You can see the trail that the hair of the brush took. If he had used his hands, the blood wouldn't have developed this sort of fringed edged. Also, the blood is thin. He spread it out and didn't use much. Well, he did, but if he had used any other method aside from a brush it would have been thicker."

"Like finger-painting." Xander nodded.

"Exactly. Finger-painting causes spaces that are thick with paint." Oz agreed. Oz moved to the next picture. "He used two different kinds. Most of the feathers are painted with a round brush with hard bristles. You can find these at any arts and crafts store. But in certain places you can see very thin lines of blood."

Oz traced one of these lines with his finger. The line was thinner in blood than the rest, creating what could be considered the veins of each feather. It was hardly noticeable in the full picture, but Oz had zoomed in on one of the feathers, enabling Xander to see it easily.

"He used something to thin the blood, maybe paint thinner or something else. I'm not an expert on that." Oz stated. "The time of death was around two in the morning, correct?"

"Yes, between two and three." Xander replied.

"He must have began his artwork after they were dead, then. There is too much detail to have enough time between cutting those pictures out of the yearbook and finishing them off." Oz bit his lip in thought. "He used a specialty brush for these lines. It's not your typical liner brush. It's too precise for that. There's also no hair found anywhere on the painting. He used a quality brush, that's for certain. These weren't found at Hobby Lobby."

"Can you type them?" Xander asked.

"No, better let your guys do that." Oz said.

"Alright, I'll get Faith to send these over." Xander sighed. "So, our guy's an artist."

"Most likely. These brush strokes are too good for him not to have some lessons on the subject." Oz began packing them away. "You said Dr. Rayne claimed he knew anatomy?"

"Something along those lines."

"Well, a lot of art students take Anatomy and Physiology in order to get their human figures right." Oz told him.

"I don't know what's more disturbing, a bunch of beret wearing artists taking biology classes or that our man's intelligent." Xander sighed. "I really appreciate this, Oz."

"What else would I do with my time?" Oz shrugged. "Did the yearbooks have any prints?"

"No." Xander shook his head. "No go on that, just another psychological problem to add to a long list of inquiries."

"I heard you paid William a visit." Oz stated, picking idly at his fingernails. The tips of his fingers showed wear from years of playing the guitar. Xander wondered if he still kept it in the back of his van, even though he wasn't a member of a band anymore.

"He prefers to be called Spike now." Xander told him, trying to give Oz as little information as possible.

"Why does that not surprise me?" Oz gave a half-smile. "How did it go? Are you okay?"

"I'm not invalid, if that's what you mean." Xander muttered. He walked around his desk and sat down, watching as Oz zipped closed the portfolio. "He just... does something to me, and I don't mean in the nightmare way. I always feel weird when I think about him or see an image of him."

"In other words you have a crush, only the circumstances require you to ignore it and fear him." Oz commented.

"It's not a crush." Xander literally growled. He rubbed at his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. "He just gets to me, okay? And... I need to ask for a favor." Oz opened his mouth, but was cut off by Xander. "Don't laugh. Promise me?"

"When have I ever laughed at you?" Oz asked.

"When we were in college and I asked that Jesse guy out on a date only to be turned down in the middle of the food quart." Xander replied.

"In my defense, everyone else was laughing, too. I'm a sheep." Oz defended. "What do you need?"

"I need a picture taken." Xander mumbled, looking away. He could feel Oz's gaze and was determined to not meet it. "I need you to promise me you won't tell anyone, especially Giles. If he knew I was having a picture taken of myself as bait for Will--err--Spike then he'd immediately cease all contact."

"Which you don't want to happen." Oz's voice was speculative.

"Not when Spike's agreed to help." Xander sighed. "It was his terms, not mine. He wants a picture of me... Shirtless."

"Shit, Xander." Oz shook his head and walked toward the desk. Xander looked up, watching as a serious of emotions flittered across Oz's face. They were quickly shut down. Oz never was the type to show real emotion. "Are you sure you should be feeding this guy's obsession? That doesn't seem very wise."

"It doesn't matter, Oz. Once he gives me what he's got, I'll be through with him." Xander insisted, pulling out the Colby file. "It'll be over and done with."

"Fine. Come over when you get off work. I don't think it's a good idea, but you've never listened to advice and I doubt you'd start now." Oz said.

"Thank you." Xander said, his voice sincere. Oz let out slight noise of annoyance, before giving Xander a tired smile as a goodbye. Xander watched him leave, before picking up his phone in order to call about visiting the Colby's storage.

The glossy coating that covered the photographs felt smooth in Spike's hands. Humming softly to himself, Spike dangled one picture in front of him. The large knife wound in Mr. Hurley's hip stood out in contrast to the grayish skin. Spike smiled, imagining the dried blood along the cut as liquid, dripping down Mr. Hurley's thigh and soaking the sheet below him.

"I bet you cried, Daddy." Spike whispered to the photographed corpse. "Watching the big bad man cut up your little girl. Did she cry? Or did she moan in pleasure?"

Spike tossed the picture onto his desk and glanced outside his cell. The small red light from the security camera stared back. Spike shrugged at it. "Hmm, maybe not? No, no, you're right. Silly of me to say such words about the little bitch."

Down the hall he could hear the orderlies handing out dinner. He wondered if it was beef tonight. He was craving chicken. Ah, well. He'd just have to send it back and demand something more to his liking. It was a pity that he couldn't put in an order for Harris as a meal.

"Alexander Harris." Spike said aloud. Spike smiled again, but unlike the last it looked more sensual than crazed. "Would you moan, whelp, if I cut into you?"

Spike chuckled and reached out to gently close the file on his desk. "Oh, but I already know the answer to that, don't I? No, you didn't moan. You quivered with fear. Quickly stopped those games, didn't I? Didn't want you to be scared... Never scared, not of me."

Spike allowed his eyes to slide across the wall and toward the glass. The white uniformed men were picking up a tray from their cart.

"You know the deal, Bradshaw." The man's voice said through the intercom. "Corner of the room, hands on the wall."

"I see manners are nonexistent these days. Does anyone say please anymore?" Spike asked, before following the order. As they inserted the meal into his room, Spike turned his head to the side and watched out of the corner of his eye. "By the way, gentlemen, I would like use of the phone. I feel it's about time to consult with my lawyer, don't you think?"

"Annoying bastard." One of the men muttered. Spike smirked.

They brought the phone once Spike was finished eating. It hadn't been beef, thankfully. Spike calmly took the cordless phone and, ignoring the steady eyes watching him, dialed a number that he knew by heart.

"Agent Harris' office." A deep, sexy female voice answered. Spike bared his teeth, not liking the thought of any woman being close to Xander.

"Ah, yes, I was hoping I could speak with Harris." Spike replied, keeping his tone polite.

"And what would this be concerning?" The woman asked. Spike fought down the urge to curse at her and continued to be polite.

"Simply tell him that Spike is on the phone and allow him to decide whether it is of importance or not." Spike said. There was a pause on the other line, thick with sudden tension. Spike managed to not lick the receiver in an attempt to taste the woman's nervousness.

"Yes, sir." She finally said. There was a click as Spike was put on hold. Spike smiled to himself as he waited, one hand reaching out to trail along the binding of one of his books. On the other side of the glass, his watchers grew impatient.

"This is Harris."

Spike closed his eyes, a soft sigh escaping him. Such a sweet voice, nearly as tasty as the man himself. Though, he sounded tired. Spike wondered what time it was and realized his pet should have been home and in bed already.

"Good evening, love." Spike greeted.

"Spike... How...?" Xander cut himself off with a huff. "Never mind, I'll be sure to tell Dr. Rosenburg that you aren't using your phone calls appropriately. What do you want?"

"Haven't seen you since this morning, pet." Spike sighed. "I miss you."

"Fascinating." Spike could hear Xander gulp. "Now, what do you really want?"

"Want? Oh, lots of things." Spike lowered his voice, allowing a hint of lust to enter it. "I want to know where you live. I want to know what you're wearing. I want to be out of this bloody hellhole and in your bed. I want to taste the small of your back. Can I, Xan? Can I lick you clean?"

There was an audible squeak on the other line.

"Spike, this is... You need to hang up now." Xander finally stated. Spike could picture Xander rolling his eyes, getting that god awful and utterly adorable look of frustration along his jaw line. "This is ridiculous."

"Mmm, gonna fuck you, pet." Spike groaned out, breaking into a wide grin when Xander sputtered. Spike fell onto his bed, allowing one leg to dangle off and swing gently. Outside his cell, the orderly was yawning and glancing at his watch.

"You're sick." Xander hissed into Spike's ear. Spike didn't take any offence. He knew that if Xander wanted to, he would have hung up already.

"Love you, too." Spike whispered. "You know you miss my touch. Don't you remember our night together? You tied to that bed and shaking off the last bits of sleep, while I tested the thickness of your skin with my knife. You look good in leather binding, did you know?"

"...I still have the scar." Xander's voice was nearly a mutter. Spike shivered at the thought that he had managed to mark Xander before the local police had him pinned to the ground and arrested him. At least he had gotten a taste.

"Alright, Bradshaw, time's up." The orderly announced, scowling.

"Got to go, love." Spike made a kissing sounding before hanging up. With a smug grin, he sent the phone back to the orderly. Then, humming a happy tune, Spike decided it was time to get ready for bed.

A few miles away, in the Los Angeles chapter of the FBI, Xander Harris sat in the corner of his office and tried to remember how to breathe.

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